


Ghost Story

by vertual



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bittersweet Ending, F/M, TRF divergent, a little bit AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-25
Updated: 2014-10-25
Packaged: 2018-02-22 13:57:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2510249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vertual/pseuds/vertual
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He didn't believe in ghosts until he found himself looking down at his own body.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ghost Story

**Author's Note:**

> So this is my first attempt at writing, and it was an idea that floated around half-formed for months before I had enough nerve to try anything with it. Based very loosely off the Coldplay song.

Sherlock Holmes had never been one to believe in the supernatural. All of those myths were nothing more than attempts at explaining occurrences that the people of their times couldn't yet explain.

Fairy tales.

But as he stood on the pavement outside the Old Pathology Building of Bart's Hospital, staring down at the bloody body that was definitely, definitely his own, it occurred to him that maybe he was wrong about ghosts.

He'd known that he would have to die this morning; no plan could be made that wouldn't have been spotted by the sniper Moriarty had trained on John across the road.

Feeling detached from himself was not as alarming as he had expected it to be. Quite the opposite; he was perfectly calm and collected as people rushed past him, around him, through him, to reach the corpse on the pavement. He saw John stumbling forward and was glad for the numbness, knowing that he should still be feeling the intense pain that burned his chest when he said his final two words.

As John approached the crowd around his lifeless body, he sensed that would be unwise to stay any longer; he backed away slowly, mist passing through the bodies of bystanders straining to get a look at the detective who was no more.

Some part of him, some instinct, knew that the doors would be no hindrance to him, and he simply walked through them, allowing his feet to take him through the old hospital that was his home away from home. His footsteps were silent on the tiled floor as he navigated the familiar halls and stairwells, bringing himself to the place he knew she would visit first when she returned to work in – he checked his watch but the hands had stopped at what he assumed was the moment his heart stopped beating. No matter; she would be here to start her day soon enough. It was her office, after all.

While he waited inside the little room, he conducted small experiments. He wondered about his current state: if his feet were firmly planted on the ground but he still felt himself dissolve when passing through doors and walls, was he solid enough to shift light items, to lean on surfaces, to sit on the chair at the desk...?

The answers to each of those questions appeared to be yes, if he concentrated. For some time he sat in the comfortable leather chair swaying from side to side as his feet pushed lightly on the floor, his head resting on his folded arms on the desk. Growing bored, he began to wonder if he could only act as a solid form if he remained unobserved....

Hearing the clatter of wheels on tile, he turned to watch as a stretcher was wheeled past the glass window of the office door, headed in the direction of the mortuary.

He'd asked her specifically to do it, telling her truthfully that she was the only one he trusted with the business, and now he felt a tinge of curiosity as he considered observing his own autopsy. Focussing on the action, he pushed away from the desk, allowing the chair to quietly roll away as he stood. Glancing back only for a moment, he moved to the corridor outside to watch his body, covered with a white sheet, being taken to the freezer.

The sounds of an argument floated into his ears and he turned to see two bodies – people – walking in his direction. The taller of the two was thickset and bespectacled, and after a few seconds his mind attached a name to the man: Stamford. The one who had introduced him to John a mere sixteen months previous. The shorter person was the one he'd been waiting for, he knew by the white lab coat. Molly's ponytail bounced behind her and he noticed that her eyes were tight and red; she'd been crying, even though she was one of the first to know that this was going to happen.

He felt a wave of guilt as he watched her march on ahead of Stamford toward the office, insisting that he let her do her job. As Stamford opened his mouth to ask her yet again to go home, her tense expression fractured and became something that was equal parts anger and despair, and she stopped in her tracks, spinning around at such a startling speed that it caused Stamford to flinch.

"He asked me to do it," she snapped, her voice clear and strong despite her clear brokenness. "He's my friend, and he asked me to do it, so I'm going to do it."

Without waiting for a response she turned back and stormed on, leaving Stamford to sigh and turn away, walking back in the direction from which he had come.

As Molly entered the office she passed through his gaseous form, leaving behind a rapidly fading warmth that he had to remind himself not to pursue. Remaining fixed in front of the door, he watched as she puttered around the office, pushing the chair back under the desk with a huff, and prepared herself for the task he had selfishly asked her to perform.

He wondered what she might hear if he were to speak. He called her name, hoping that his raised voice might be heard, but instead he felt an unfamiliar pain in his chest as she trudged out of the office and through his form once more. She disappeared around the corner before he could compose himself enough to turn in her direction, disappointment surrounding him like a cloud at the knowledge that she hadn't heard so much as a whisper in her ear.

His legs moved seemingly of their own accord as he ran in pursuit of the forensic pathologist, who would very soon be taking his body apart. He was no longer sure that he was following her for the purpose of watching his autopsy. Seeing her distress had stirred something in his mind, something different from the grief that sat in his gut with the awareness that he had lost everybody he ever cared about, different from the other emotions that he could identify but not currently bring himself to feel.

It had been a feeling of want: he wanted to get her attention, to call her close, to apologise, to thank her, to say it would be all right, to tell her about himself in a way that no news report or vicarious story could....

He wanted to admit that he had separated her from the rest of them. Somehow, she had been the one to kick the biggest hole in his wall to peer inside. Somehow, she had always seen more than anyone; more than the Woman had, more than John had, more than his own family had.

Molly had seen straight through him, and for that he wanted her. Yes, she was intelligent, objectively attractive, and inappropriately funny, but her ability to see the human that everybody else had tried to bring out and make visible was what made her different.

Suddenly losing interest in the prospect of seeing the inside of his own body, he stopped just outside the doors that opened to the room in which his corpse lay. He found himself backing away, blindly bringing himself back to the empty office with an overwhelming sensation of numbness, and a simple desire to be gone.

He had some lights to be getting to. It wouldn't do to stick around haunting the woman he only now realised he loved.

Determined to leave something behind, he returned to his seat at the desk. A small stack of Post-Its sat off to the right, a simple blue pen resting beside them. He pulled both items toward him inch by inch, his fingers occasionally slipping through the objects in his slight agitation. The pen fell through his hand only once as he scribbled his message, and again as finished drawing the final letter.

It was cruel, he knew, but he could never have let himself leave without saying it.

 _Thank you._  
_I loved you._  
_I'm sorry.  
_ _SH_

He smiled sadly down at his work, and the next moment, he was engulfed.

* * *

 

Molly Hooper had never been one to believe in the supernatural. The stories were interesting and entertaining, but there was never much of a reason to put any stock into them.

But as she picked up the stack of notes in front of her and read the familiar scrawl that had definitely not been there before, it occurred to her that maybe she was wrong about ghosts.


End file.
